Boring City
by Cr1mson5
Summary: It's the classic Batman-versus-Joker fight. But this is not your average Batman…and not the normal Joker. Rated T for violence, some language, and some elements you may/may not find disturbing.  If it sucks, please don't flame.
1. Nothing Really Mattered

Tim Drake could not make sense of his surroundings when he awakened.

He was lying on his side on a soft bed, in the most comfortable sleeping position possible for him. He was wearing pajamas that fit him, and he was covered by warm, woolen blankets. Yet, somehow, he felt an odd chill against his skin. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the stark white of the clothes on his back and the sheets draped over him, and the gentler, more off-white shade of the walls and carpet and the curtains pulled across the window.

It was either the middle of the night or very early in the morning. Or maybe the curtains were just thicker than they seemed. Whatever the cause might've been, no sunlight was present in the room. Actually, there was no light of any kind whatsoever. But, the really strange thing was…Tim didn't care.

It didn't unsettle him in the least that he wasn't in his own pajamas in his own bedroom in his own house. It didn't faze him at all that he had no idea what was going on. It didn't even worry him that, when he touched his face, he touched smooth skin and not the slick material of his cowl or the fabric of a domino mask. That was due in part, most likely, to the tranquilizers coursing through his system. He had a dim, hazy memory of someone sticking a needle into his wrist, injecting him, catching him before he completely blacked out…and then, nothing. And then, he woke up. But it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered.

No…all that mattered to Tim was that he didn't know where everyone else was.

He'd been being followed for days, but it was alright. The people following him were people he knew, and they just wanted to make sure he was okay. They were all so concerned about him. It was touching, really. But he had no idea where they were now, and that made him upset. He missed them. He _needed _them. What if they'd gone forever and hadn't even—

"Tim."

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned a little to see Conner leaning over him, smiling. "It's alright, Tim. I'll be here to watch over you, just like always. Go back to sleep."

So he did.


	2. How Much It Hurt

I can't tell you how much it hurt, making my way through the halls of Arkham Asylum.

The classic, deep black cape swirled around me as I went, walking so fast that I was almost gliding. My boots thudded loudly on the linoleum floors, and I let the sound wash over me, replacing all thought. Instinctively, I was on guard, watching my back, making sure nobody was hiding around a corner waiting to jump me. The black metal Bat-symbol on my chest gleamed under the fluorescent light fixtures, my cowl snug against my face and head. And the whole time, I tried not to think of who I was going to see, who was going to be in that cell I'd be going into.

I can't tell you how much it hurt, walking to that cell in Arkham Asylum, opening up the door, and seeing Tim Drake sitting on the bed.

He sat there calmly, as if he didn't register where he was, as if nothing in the world were wrong with him. The orange of his jumpsuit stood out against the bright white room around us, the number on the chest—982317—seeming to glare even more at me, a cold reminder of what his fate was. His black hair hung down into his face, but he made no move to brush it away from his eyes. He didn't even act like he cared at all, about anything. My little brother, the one I'd had to lock away, was sitting there acting like everything was just fine when it wasn't, when…when _he _wasn't.

"Tim," I called.

He tilted his head up the slightest bit to look at me through his hair. It was a tiny motion, barely perceptible, but I caught it. Just like a good Batman is supposed to do.

"I'm in Arkham Asylum." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"I'm in a private cell, one of the nicer ones, probably…top floor, next-to-top, I'd guess."

"Yes."

"I'll be staying here a while."

I swallowed the emotions welling up inside me, and, after a small pause, answered, "Yes."

Tim laughed a choked, bitter laugh that sounded nothing like him. He shook his head at me, as if he was thinking I was pathetic or missing some obvious fact or not doing the math right. He acted as if none of this was a surprise to him. He acted almost like he…expected to be here. "Why, Dick?" he demanded, finally raising his face all the way. "Why am I here? What did I do? I'm not some psychopathic murderer. I'm not a bad guy. So why am I here?"

As much as I hated myself for doing it, I stayed where I was. I didn't cross the room to sit next to him; I didn't even let on that I'd thought about it, even briefly. I just stood there. He just sat there. We stared each other down for a minute or so, until I couldn't take the silence anymore. "Tim," I began hesitantly, "you've been…very sick, for a very long time." It sounded like I was talking to a little kid, and we both knew it. But Tim just laughed again, shook his head again in that same way, except this time, it was almost as if he were amused at some inside joke that I wasn't a part of.

"If I've been sick, I should be in a normal hospital, not a psych ward," he remarked.

"You haven't been sick in that way, exactly."

"Then in what way _have _I been sick?"

Again, I hesitated. I didn't want to have to tell him, as much for my sake as for his. But keeping him in the dark wouldn't help him or me. The best thing, whether I liked it or not, was for Tim to know about his condition, and to just let him deal with how well he'd accept it. I took a deep breath and responded, bluntly, honestly, as emotionlessly as possible, "You're mentally ill, Tim, emotionally and psychologically unstable. You've been on a downward spiral for something like two months now. Leslie and I came to the decision that the best thing for you was to have you treated in Arkham."

The smile faded from Tim's face and eyes. He stared at me in disbelief. "You're not serious, are you?" he demanded. "So now I'm 'mentally ill?' On what grounds; can you even _prove _it?"

_I really didn't want to have to do this to you, little brother. _I knew it'd only traumatize him, make him upset. He might've hated me for it. He might've finally seen it. I didn't know what to think except that I really didn't want to have to do that, but it looked like I'd have to, anyway. "Has anybody else come to see you recently?"

Tim seemed slightly puzzled, caught off guard by the question. "Um…yeah, Conner came this morning, and Bart was just here."

Some part of me had been hoping that he'd give the answer I was looking for, that he'd say he'd had no visitors other than me and the doctors. Some part of me had been hoping that I wouldn't hear those names I'd been hearing for the past two weeks, that he wouldn't really truly believe that they'd come to see him. All that hope, it was crushed in the whole four seconds it took Tim to say that. Now, it was my turn to shake my head. "Tim, Conner and Bart never came here," I informed him, trying to suppress the emotion welling up in my voice. "They haven't been in Gotham for a long time."

"That's—that's not possible. I just talked to them today, we were on the phone yesterday, I…what are you trying to say, Dick?"

"Has there been anybody else besides them?"

"Mom, Dad, Stephanie, Dana, Darla, and Bruce, but I don't get why it's such a big deal that they came to visit me. What are you telling me?"

I sighed and closed my eyes behind the lenses in the cowl in frustration. This was harder than I'd thought it'd be. "Tim, I'm telling you that you've been imagining all of that. Your parents are dead. Your friends are dead. Bruce…" My voice caught, so I swallowed to fix it and continued, trying hard not to break. "Bruce is dead."


	3. The Nuthouse

Tim looked like he was about to be sick. He licked his lips, glanced around uncomfortably as if he were caught in a crowd. "That's not possible, Dick," he repeated. "They were all just here. I—I _know_ they're not dead. If…if this is supposed to be some kind of sick practical joke, it's not very funny."

"I wish it was a joke, Tim. You don't know how much I wish it was. But you have to face the reality that everybody you've been seeing is dead. Some of them have been dead for over two years now." I was starting to raise my voice at him, so I stopped and collected myself, mentally reciting something Bruce had always told me. _"Any strong emotion showing leads to vulnerability, to a weakness you can't afford to have. Control it—always." _I counted to three, took a deep breath, and continued. "Some of the best psychologists in the nation examined your file, as well as your family, and there is no history of any genetic mental illness or schizophrenia anywhere. They can only conclude that _you are insane_. Fortunately, we happen to live in the vicinity of a mental hospital with particularly effective methods."

Tim snorted. "Yeah, conform to treatment or get beaten within an inch of your life," he said sarcastically. "Look, Dick, you're my big brother and all, and I trust you, but do you seriously expect me to believe this bullcrap you're feeding me? I'm not insane." If I wasn't mistaken, his voice was inching toward a plea. I allowed my eyes to meet his, and they were wide, tearful and sad and eager to hear what he wanted to hear, that he was right, that this was a joke and nothing more. I'd obviously shaken his cool demeanor into nonexistence, and he looked so rattled that I wanted so badly to tell him that I wasn't serious, to snatch him up and take him back home and hope he'd get better. But the rational part of me—the Batman in me—told me that was impossible, and I had no choice but to stand by it…no matter how much I didn't want to. That was, after all, what a good Batman should do. And it was for the good of everyone, I told myself, even and especially Tim. "Please, just…just get me out of here. I don't belong in here, Dick. You know that."

"You're to remain here for treatment," I stated, holding down the sadness and regret in my own voice. "You'll be tended to by the best doctors, nurses, and psychologists in Gotham. They'll figure out some way to make you better, and then you can come home. I promise." I turned to go, walking toward the door.

"Dick, no," Tim called out behind me. "Please, I don't want to stay here. I'm not insane! _Dick!_"

"I'm sorry, Tim."

I left without even so much as a backward glance, because I knew that I'd break if I had to see the expression on his face as he watched me abandon him to his worst nightmare. Tim had always hated therapists and psychologists. He didn't even especially like normal doctors. Now, to be surrounded by them at every hour of the day, three hundred sixty-five days of the year, it must've been like torture for him. But, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't take him away from it. He might've been crazy, but Tim was still smart, and trained by the original Batman. Who was to say that he couldn't be a threat to the city outside that place? By the same token, he could've escaped and become a threat, but I just had to trust that they'd help him before things got to that point.

That was a hard day for me. I had to lock my little brother up in a mental hospital. Then I had to tell him why I did it. And now, I had to walk away from him and leave him there. I guess, in a way, that was the beginning of the end of everything normal. That was the day that it all started.

Tim was curled up in a ball on his bed, crying, when Stephanie arrived with Darla and Dana in tow.

"Oh, Tim, what's wrong?" Steph cried, rushing over to him.

He spoke through his heavy, shuddering sobs, the waterfall of tears soaking his face and clothes. "D-D-Dick…he—he left me here…he left me in a damn nuthouse," he stammered. "A-and now…I-I-I have to s-see a shrink, and I hate w-when people m-mess with my head, and…and…" The thought made his words stick in his throat, and he settled for curling up tighter on the bed, crying harder and clutching his right fist to his chest. Steph's hand came to rest on his back, comfortingly.

From somewhere on his right, he heard Darla say, "I can't believe he would do that to you, Tim. That's not fair. Did he even give you a chance to explain?"

Tim shook his head, still sobbing.

"How could he just immediately assume you're insane and not even give you a chance?" Dana wondered.

"I don't know," Tim mumbled piteously.

"Well, whatever the reason," Steph cut in, "you're here now. You might as well make the most of it, then, right?"

This surprised Tim. He wiped his nose and sat up to stare at her in incredulousness, caught off guard by her words. Was she serious? How was he supposed to "make the most" of being in freaking Arkham Asylum, for heaven's sake? "What…what do you mean?" he asked carefully.

Steph got a sly look on her face, the same one she'd always gotten when she was about to make some big plan to do something that would tick Batman off or before she decided to make Tim wish he'd never met her at the same time that he was falling more in love with her. "Okay, so, they stuck you in here. They've arranged to have psychs and shrinks and doctors and nurses come in to take care of you and treat you for some illness they all say you've got. But does that necessarily mean you've _got _to do what they say? After all, it's a free country that we live in."

Dana and Darla nodded their agreement. Suddenly, Tim got their point, understood what they were trying to tell him. The hint clicked in an instant, erasing all previous traces of hopelessness in his brain.

There really wasn't much of a need to cry anymore.


	4. Spoiler, the Problem

As if I didn't already have enough to deal with, one young Miss Christina Salvatori began making my life very, very difficult.

She somehow kept popping up everywhere, asking—no, demanding—to be taken on as my partner, or sidekick, or apprentice, or "whatever I wanted to call it", as she said. She was bound and determined to help me, even though she just got in the way more often than not. Not that the poor girl could really help it. She'd never been formally trained in anything except acrobatics, and she was really only fourteen or fifteen years old, no idea how bad things could really get out there. Just thinking about it hurt, because that was just barely than Tim when he first started out. Even worse, she fancied herself the new Spoiler. She'd even gone through all the trouble of making her own purple-and-black costume, and she only tweaked the uniform slightly so that when I looked at her, I had to suppress the urge to call her "Steph" or "Stephanie". The grim reminder of the ex-Robin and the deceased Spoiler, all wrapped up into one person, made me finally understand what Bruce must've gone through with Tim. It was difficult to keep her down for long, to deter her from this life that she so badly wanted.

But she was naïve. I guess, in a sense, we all were when we were that young. Christina really had no idea how horrible it could be out in the field, how scary and dangerous things could get. She wasn't prepared to face death and keep pushing. Not to say that I couldn't prepare her, but, after seeing what happened to Tim and Stephanie and Jason and so many others like them…I just couldn't chance it. I couldn't gamble a teenage girl's life on a few months of training that wouldn't prepare her for things like fear gas and psychotic killers and ninja assassins. I couldn't do that. I couldn't bet Christina's safety on shaky semi-security derived from something that may not hold her. And I wouldn't take the blame if something terrible happened to her. So I kept refusing her, over and over again, denying her the chance to become a part of the Bat-family. It sounds cruel, but it was the only way.

"Why?" she finally demanded one night, after being refused for the umpteen-millionth time. "Why won't you let me join up with you? I could be…I could be, like, Robin's best friend! I could be Batgirl's partner if I have to! I don't care if I'm not working with you directly; I just want in! So why won't you _let_ me, Batman?"

It still sent an odd chill up my spine, being called Batman after being Nightwing for so long. It might've just been because I was unused to it. But it was probably because, even after two months of having the mantle all to myself, I could never forget what Bruce had made it into, what he'd fashioned it to be from day one. This was _his _moniker, his symbol, and there was a still a small part of me that whispered: _What do you think you're doing, usurping the Batman identity like this? You don't belong in his shoes. You can never fill out his cape and cowl, his legacy. The only person who deserves the right to be called "Batman" is Bruce Wayne, and he's dead, and you're nothing like him. You don't deserve this, and you don't belong._ I swallowed the feeling and stared hard at Christina, trying to see through the plain black, full-face mask into her eyes, but finding it extremely difficult. I could still remember when I first met Tim, his heartfelt, wide-eyed pleas that I return to being Robin, not long after I'd become Nightwing. Why did all the younger ones have to go for the "sad teen" approach?

"Because it's too dangerous," I answered her before I could stop the words from coming out of my mouth, and I immediately realized how lame it sounded, especially coming from me.

"Robin's, like, a whole ten years old, and _he's _out there, fighting crime! I'm sixteen, so why can't I?"

"I guess you could call it a family business." It wasn't a lie. At least, it wasn't completely a lie.

"And you don't want to share it with anybody outside the family? How selfish is that?"

"That's not how it is. It's just…there are a lot of dangers out there. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that could happen to you on the first night. Not everybody who tries out for this kind of lifestyle is meant to handle it. I don't want you to have to pay a terrible price in order to find out if you can."

"But I'm ready to face it! I'm ready to face the dangers and train with you and work with you and give up my nights for the good of the city! That's what this is about, right? Please, just…just give me a chance, okay? All I want is a chance."

I sat back on the fire escape in the alleyway, thinking. I'd meant what I said to her. I could tell that, despite what she thought, she really wasn't all that ready to face the dangers of the hero life. She had no business being out here at the moment. I needed some way to make sure she knew what she was getting herself into.

Then it hit me.

I motioned for her to follow me, and then I led her into the Batmobile. "Buckle up," I advised her, fastening my own seatbelt as the car closed over our heads.

"Where are we going?" Christina asked, obediently (for a change) pulling on her seatbelt.

"I'm going to show you the worst thing that can happen to somebody your age in this business."

Imagine her surprise when we pulled up at Arkham Asylum. I tossed her a spare grapnel gun, and we shot up to the next-to-highest floor, perching just outside a window whose curtains had not yet been pulled. I put a finger to my lips and pointed inside at the black-haired figure lying on the bed, covered by the sheets, fast asleep, but most likely only lightly sleeping. Christina cocked her head, not understanding. "Who…who is he?" she whispered.

"That," I murmured in reply, "is Tim Drake, formerly known as Robin." She turned her head quickly to look at me in what I can only assume was disbelief behind the mask. "He became Robin when he was thirteen years old—not much younger than you. He received months upon months of training, traveled all around the world to learn everything you could ever possibly need to know, but that all came down to nothing when he started losing everyone around him. First, he lost his mother, and then, three years later, he lost his girlfriend, father, best friends, and stepmother. Just recently, we all lost somebody very close to us—the original Batman. And then, Tim snapped. He started to go insane, so I had him admitted to Arkham Asylum, for his own protection." _And the city's, _my mind added, making me wish it'd shut up. "He'll stay here until the doctors are certain the treatment has been fully successful, and then it'll be…questionable whether or not he can return to the life."

Christina was silent for a long time. Then, she said, quietly, "Why did he go insane? I mean, what caused it?"

I shrugged, turning to face her. "We don't really know," I told her truthfully. "We think it had something to do with the fact that he wouldn't ever talk about losing people. He just bottled it up inside until he couldn't take it anymore. Of course, he also saw a great deal of crap in his lifetime."

"Is that the technical term?"

I glared at her, and she fell silent, watching and listening to me. "My point is, even if you don't die, you're always risking something like this. Would you be willing to end up like Tim, having lost everything, including your own mind, your own sanity?"

Christina didn't answer. She just looked down at her bent knees. After a while, she looked back up at me, her determined resolve obviously faded somewhat. "Do you think he knows? Do you think he knows that he's not…you know…?"

I shook my head. "He doesn't."

"Do you think he'll ever get better?"

"I don't know, Christina. I don't know."

We turned back to the window—and nearly fell off the building. Standing there at the glass, staring out at us with hollow, vacant blue-gray eyes, was Tim. He looked slowly from Christina to me, then back to her, and then back to me. Our eyes met for a moment, and I could see the expression of betrayal in his, betrayal that I was letting her run around as Spoiler (even though I technically wasn't). Then the curtains snapped shut so fast that Christina jumped. My hand shot out involuntarily to steady her. She and I exchanged a glance. "Do you have a family?" I asked her.

She nodded slowly. "Gotham…Gotham City Orphanage," she replied shakily. "C-can you…can you take me back there? I…don't really want to go alone."

So I took her back, just like she asked. If nothing else, what she'd seen that night would be a stark reminder of the consequences of getting involved in the hero's world. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to take her to see what _other _"worst things" could happen to her…

Looking back on it, I wish I hadn't taken her there. I'd been so wrapped up in making sure Christina got the message that I didn't think about what it would do to Tim to see a different Spoiler outside his window, watching him. Maybe, if I hadn't done that, things wouldn't have taken the turn that they did.


	5. Cafeteria Fight

It was three months to the day he'd been admitted. Tim was starting to like Arkham better than he'd thought he would. The firsthand encounters with some of the worst of the worst when he wasn't punching them in the face or kicking them in the groin made him hate them less and understand them more. Somehow, it'd been difficult for him to understand that there really were human beings behind the cold, criminal facades, back when he was Robin.

It seemed so long ago now, when he wore that costume, used that name. How long had it been? Only three months, Tim was sure, but time passed so slowly nowadays that he was already losing track.

He'd struck up something of a friendship with Jonathon Crane and Edward Nigma, as they all were the smartest minds in the asylum, no matter what the degree of insanity for each. Getting the chance to talk to all of Bruce's old foes, he wished he could've known then what he knew now. Hearing their stories, their sadness, and their _lives _played out before him, he realized that they were so alike in so many ways, him and the other inmates, and he was ashamed at the things he'd done to them. Perhaps…perhaps if Bruce had known the things that Tim knew now, his approach might've been different, as well. After all, Bruce and Tim were so very much alike, which meant that Bruce must've also been somewhat like his enemies.

Maybe that was why he'd worked so hard to stop them, Tim mused. Maybe he was afraid that they were the mirror of what he would become if he ever allowed himself to go down that path.

Of course, Bruce didn't really do a whole lot of anything anymore except watch over Tim and keep him from getting too bored in the asylum when he had nothing else to do. That was the other reason that Tim found himself growing closer to the inmates. Unlike the psychologists or psychiatrists or doctors, or even Dick, they never looked at him funny when he started talking to Bruce. They never treated him like he was some kind of psycho or nutcase. In fact, they treated him as if he were perfectly normal. And he liked that. He didn't like the way his psychologist, Dr. Truman, was always telling him to focus and asking him if he was sure Bruce and Conner and Stephanie and the others were really there with him, or if he thought he might just be imagining things. It made Tim—oh, what was the word?—disconcerted, or maybe distraught was the better word. He never liked his sessions with Dr. Truman, or Dr. Wasserman, or, for that matter, any of the doctors they brought in to help "make him better." Tim was perfectly okay. He didn't need their help, he told himself. He didn't need their help any more than a butterfly needed help becoming a caterpillar.

Or was it the other way around?

He never _could _remember anymore.

Edward and Jonathon enjoyed his company, and he enjoyed theirs. They always carried on conversations with him, no matter how strange, reminisced about the "old days" while he listened intently, comforted him on the days when he was especially upset, and they always laughed at his jokes.

When did Tim start telling jokes?

He wasn't sure, but he knew he liked it, this telling jokes thing. It was fun.

Tim was sad when Edward had to leave. He didn't want to lose another friend. He'd already had to go so long without seeing Conner, Bart, Darla, and Stephanie. He could sense that it'd be even longer before he got to see Edward again. But Jonathon was still there for him, despite everything, and he still wanted to hear Tim out.

Tim had thought that his tolerance of all the inmates had increased, but he was wrong. There was still one who, despite everything he learned, he just couldn't stop hating. He didn't really know why he hated the Joker so much; he just…did. It was a feeling as unshakable as the knowledge that his heart was beating and his blood was flowing. There was just something about the Joker that stirred up a deep, fiery rage in him that he couldn't let go of—ever.

The day it finally boiled over, they were in the cafeteria getting their lunches. Tim watched the Joker enter from across the room, glaring at him and despising that bright red smile and those wide, lunatic's eyes. He ground his teeth in frustration. "Why can't I do anything about it?" he grumbled to himself.

He heard Bart's voice from beside him: "Who said you can't?"

Tim realized what he meant—and it was a good plan. It was a makeshift plan, yes, but it would do for now.

The Joker didn't see what was happening until Tim was right up on him. Nobody tried to stop him; nobody even got in the way. He wrapped an arm around Joker's throat and dragged him down to the ground. When he tried to stand, Tim grabbed a heavy tray and slammed it over Joker's head, knocking him back down again. Then, Tim was on top of him, pinning him down and hitting him over and over again, and each time his fists made contact with flesh, the Joker laughed. He laughed as if Tim had just told him some hilarious joke. He laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world that a high-schooler was practically beating him to death on the floor of the cafeteria at Arkham Asylum. It only angered Tim even more. Didn't Joker get it? Didn't he understand? He shouldn't be laughing; he should be screaming! There was no _way _this didn't hurt! So Tim hit him harder. By this time, blood was pouring from the Joker's nose and mouth, and his right eye was blackened, but he kept laughing. Tim stopped punching him for a second, but it was only so he could jam his forearm against the other's throat, cutting off his windpipe. And then he started to hit him again.

It didn't seem to bother the other inmates that the Joker was getting beaten within an inch of his life. In fact, they seemed to enjoy it. They stood around the two, encircling them, chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" repeatedly. Nobody made a move to stop Tim, or to pull him off the Joker. The only people who were concerned about breaking it up were the guards who were starting to file in.

One of them placed a strong hand on Tim's shoulder, saying, "Now, that's enough, son."

Tim's elbow rammed itself into the guard's groin, and as he doubled over, Tim connected an upper cut with his jaw. As the guard went down, Tim yanked the billy club off his belt and smacked it against Joker's flesh with all his might, over and over again. Even though some people were on him now, pulling on his arms, he kept whaling on the Joker with everything he had, taking out everything that had ever happened to him on the demented clown whose hoarse, insane laughter still rang out loud and proud, too loud for Tim's own tastes. He wanted so badly to shut the clown up. And he wanted to shut him up forever, to teach him when it was better to hold in that stupid laugh and that stupid smile and just stand there, not saying anything or doing anything at all, because that was what he needed to learn more than anything, and—

The sharp sting of a taser in the small of his back finally managed to halt Tim's blows. Suddenly, he could hardly move through the pain. The guards had him down on the ground, and they were shackling his hands behind his back, and then they warned the Joker to get back. The taser had made Tim's already distant mind fuzzy, but he registered that the Joker was still laughing, even as he wiped his own blood off his face, as he struggled to stand.

And Tim hated him for it.

As he was led away, Tim caught Jonathon's eye. The elder man looked down at him with some fraction of interest. "Now you're a real inmate," he murmured, stopping the young man. "They're giving you the jacket."

Tim didn't let himself think about it as they took him away.


	6. Solitary Confinement

Needless to say, I was less than pleased when I was called to Arkham by Leslie due to the news of Tim's latest escapades at the asylum.

Okay, I'll admit it: once Tim was "safe" at Arkham Asylum, I didn't really worry too much about his recovery anymore. That and the increased stress levels from dealing with the crime, the night life, the daytime image, Damian Wayne's insistence upon becoming Robin, and Gotham City in general caused the frequentness of my visits to Tim to gradually peter out until they just...didn't really happen anymore. It wasn't that I stopped caring about him; I could never do that. It was just that I had a lot to deal with, and I'd figured Tim would be well enough off with the staff at Arkham.

When I arrived, my heart sunk in dread when I was directed to a cell in Detention Block D, otherwise known as solitary confinement. My escort punched a code into a keypad, and the two-inch-thick, steel door unlocked with a loud buzz. Exchanging a glance with the employee, I pushed open the door and walked inside, shutting it behind me.

It was a tiny little cell, about the size of a small bedroom, and it was padded with material that, at one time, I'm sure, was bright orange, but was now darkened with age and stained with various suspiciously reddish-brown spots all over the walls. There was no furniture. Tim sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his arms bound tightly to his body by a straitjacket. His back faced the door, and he didn't turn to look at me when I entered the room. "Tim?" I said. "I heard about what happened."

Silence was his answer.

A strange feeling welled up in my throat, a feeling that I couldn't quite place or identify. I pushed it down and kept talking. "They tell me you're not responding to treatment," I pressed. "You're refusing to do what your psychologists ask, and you're to the point where you won't even talk to them anymore. You're hanging around inmates like Scarecrow and Two-Face and getting into fights with the ones you don't like. They said you almost beat the Joker to death in the cafeteria just a little over an hour ago. Is it true that you're doing all of that?"

Tim was still silent.

I shook my head at him. "Tim, you cannot keep going like this," I told him firmly. "Sooner or later, if you want to come home, you've got to conform to treatment. You have to tell the doctors what's wrong in order for them to be able to help you. Don't you understand that?"

The quiet that enveloped us in the room stretched on, becoming increasingly more disturbing with each moment that it lasted. The feeling came back up my throat then, and I realized that it was uneasiness. Standing here, waiting for Tim to answer me, I realized in the back of my mind that he was toying with me. Tim always liked to see me squirm, to see _anybody _squirm, because he always thought it was funny to see the looks on people's faces. He knew that silence made me more squeamish than blood, guts, and gore ever could.

At long last, he replied to me, but he didn't look at me when he said, "I understand perfectly."

"So, then…why aren't you doing it?" The question came out harsher than I'd meant it to, and I was afraid it'd make Tim mad, but his tone didn't change the next time he spoke.

"I'm not doing it 'cause it's not fun," he explained, as if that was all the answer I needed.

I narrowed my eyes behind the cowl. "Tim, what do you mean by that?"

He turned his head the slightest bit to peer at me over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want to do whatever they're telling me to do because I know that all they're going to tell me to do is a bunch of pseudo-medical crap that won't actually _do _anything for me. It's not _fun _to waste time like that." He turned away again. "Besides, I don't need any of their help. I'm perfectly alright."

I shook my head again. "Tim…no, no, you're not perfectly alright. In fact, you're perfectly all _wrong_. That's _why_ you're in here. And if you don't start shaping up, you'll never get out of here. Do you want to spend the rest of your life inside Arkham Asylum, hanging out with the rogues and driving yourself even more insane with each passing day? Is that the life you want for yourself? Or do you want to do something for this city, just like you always said you would?"

Tim had apparently said his piece, and he clammed up and wouldn't talk after that. I was polite and waited for him to say something, but he never did. I sighed and headed for the door; saying over my shoulder on the way out, "Think about that, Tim." And then I left.

And no, I wasn't sorry that I didn't say goodbye until afterwards.

"_Think about that, Tim."_

That was what Dick had told him to do as he left the solitary confinement cell. Tim, still sitting comfortably, cross-legged and straitjacketed, had been listening the whole time to everything his older brother had said to him. And, oddly enough, it made sense. If he wanted to get out of this place—and he didn't want to stay there forever, of course—he'd have to start being proactive, start doing things to ensure he wouldn't be stuck in there for all eternity.

Tim cracked a smile, chuckling to himself. "Oh, Dick," he sighed. "I'm most definitely going to start doing something for this city. I'm going to do…_so_..._much_…for this city…"


	7. Everything That Needed To Be Done

No employee could say they didn't know how the prisoner had gotten out. It was quite clear, due to the evidence presented by the doctors who went to check on the situation. The last they'd heard, guards were headed to retrieve him and deliver him to his latest session with the psychiatrists, but when almost forty minutes went by with no sign of any of them, Dr. Truman and Dr. Wasserman had gone down to his cell to see if the guards had ever really even been there. To their surprise, the door was swung wide open and all four escorts lay unconscious on the ground, with a pair of handcuffs lying next to them in the doorway. They'd worriedly contacted the main control room of the asylum, stating that a dangerous inmate was on the loose in Arkham.

The only response they received was low laughter and harsh static.

Tim had moved fast. He was always good at getting around without being seen. He remembered his way around Arkham from all the times of getting dumped off there to deliver a baddie or investigate a prison break. Funny, he'd never thought he'd be using that map in his head to organize his own little prison break.

It had been relatively simple to get past the guards, slip out of the handcuffs, and sneak through the halls. He knew all the best shortcuts, all the best corners to hide in. And it didn't take as long as he'd suspected, either. Forty minutes, tops, was a good time, for being in such a big place. And he hadn't been noticed by anybody, which was the best part of it all. That meant his plan was on the high road to success. Then, Tim had to snicker at the thought. _What plan are you talking about? I don't remember making a plan of any kind, really._

He slipped quietly into the main control room when the guard stationed there opened the door, and one quick blow to the back of the head was all it took to knock the man unconscious. Tim slunk over to the computers and the control panels, scanning through the various buttons, switches, and levers with his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. Jack and Janet hung over his shoulder, watching him like hawks. "Remember what we discussed, son," Jack reminded him gently. "We've got to operate smoothly here."

"I know, I know," Tim snapped, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively.

"Now, be nice to your father," Janet warned in that voice she'd always used on him when he was a little kid. "He's just trying to help you get things done, you know."

Jonathon was sitting in his cell when the intercom crackled to life, and, involuntarily, he jumped to his feet, his eyes up on the speaker in the upper corner of the room. He hadn't been expecting another announcement, not this soon. But, suddenly, a strange feeling of foreboding crept over him, and he realized it was one of _those _nights, and, therefore, one of _those _announcements. They happened every so often, but he'd never learned how to predict them, only how to tell when they arrived.

The voice that floated through the speaker was young and familiar, the voice of a friend. "I've been thinking," Tim drawled on the other end. "This city is so _boring _nowadays, since we're all locked up tight and snug in here. So, do a fellow inmate a favor, will you? Go out and make Gotham City interesting again."

Across the asylum could be heard the collective clicks and clangs of locks undoing themselves, and then the squeals of the hinges of cell doors, protesting at being opened after so long of being closed. Jonathon cautiously approached his own cell door and placed a hand against it, pushing lightly. To his surprise, it opened. He slipped through the crack in the door and out into the crowd of inmates surging through the halls of Arkham to their freedom after so many long months and years of containment.

The escapees from Arkham Asylum rampaged through the streets of Gotham City, terrorizing the citizens and even a few of the petty criminals and gangsters who roamed the sidewalks. They only clung together if they were the "normal crazies", the faceless thugs and people with real mental diseases instead of just strange costumes. The more recognizable ones, the infamous ones such as the Penguin and the Scarecrow, split up to run alone, to do their work solo. They preferred not to interact with each other unless absolutely necessary, as each was convinced that his way was best to take down the Bat and rule the city.

It wasn't too hard to find the Joker. All you had to do was just follow the trail of dead bodies, painted "ha-ha-has" on walls of buildings, and the wild, hardly contained laughter. Not that most in their right minds would want to find him, of course, but this particular inmate was lucky. He wasn't exactly in his right mind that night.

The Joker had, predictably, returned to an old haunt, an abandoned apartment building that not even the poorest of the poor would dare use. Apparently, he hadn't seen fit to take any of his cronies with him there. _Pity, _the inmate thought, half-sympathetic and half-cynical, _he's going to need all the help he can get._

Of course, it wasn't difficult at all to get inside. He'd had enough time before he had to carry out his plan to change his clothes at his own hideout, a place he hadn't used in months. All he brought with him was a Smith & Wesson M1911, .45-caliber with four rounds inside. He wouldn't need any more, not with how fast things were expected to go. Of course, he wouldn't need more. He was insane, but that'd be stupid.

He followed the Joker into the inner area of the building, a place totally devoid of human life. For a good reason; it was so dilapidated and moldy that he expected it to fall in on their heads at any moment. He tried to put it out of his mind—there was enough there to deal with already—and kept his thoughts on the mission. _No screw-ups tonight. We can't afford anything going wrong._

The Joker was leaning over a table, working at something and chortling to himself as he worked. The inmate slid quietly into the room, his M1911 readied at his side, and sidled up to his target. The Joker heard his footsteps as he approached, turned, and started to make a joke. He didn't get the words completely out before the four rounds were fired off, and bright red blood splattered the table and floor.

Satisfied, the inmate left. _Now, we can get things started._

The first thought in my mind, naturally, when there was a prison break at Arkham Asylum was: _Tim_. I was worried about him. Even if he hadn't instigated it, even if he didn't participate, he'd no doubt be swept up by the waves of inmates and get himself hurt or worse. I immediately called in to the leftover authorities at the asylum, demanding to know if there were any inmates still there. I was oddly relieved to hear the answer was no, but then I remembered that that meant I had to go and find my little brother in a city so big it made Chicago tremble, and I was absolutely infuriated.

As I suited up in the bunker, Damian insisted that he come along. "Absolutely not," I said. "You're not ready to handle the nuts that come out of that place's inner sanctum. Trust me, Damian; you don't want to see what those guys can do to a ten-year-old kid in a Robin costume. They'll make it look like child's play."

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, plopping down in a chair. "You wouldn't have told Drake that," he huffed.

I pulled on my cowl, involuntarily (is it bad that it's already a habit?) taking on my Batman voice. "Actually, I would've. See you later."

I scoured a good portion of the city for about four hours, searching for Tim and rounding up crazies along the way. After all that time, I finally got the good sense to check in places he used to frequent, and that system finally led me to his old safe house. I went inside tentatively, although I'm not totally sure why. The rooms were mostly dark, all except maybe one or two lights in each turned off, leaving it heavily shadowed. The ample blackness around me made me uneasy, almost afraid, and a pungent odor like ammonia or some other type of cleaner clung to the strangely cool air inside, threatening to draw out the contents of my stomach onto the floor. I could feel an odd chill all around me, something that can only be described as pure evil. And I hoped it wasn't radiating from my little brother.

I found him in the supply room, sitting in a chair with his legs up on a worktable, holding an open newspaper in front of his face so that I couldn't see him. I entered the room as stealthily as possible, sweeping in without a sound, but he still heard me, thanks to his training. He called out from behind the paper, "So, I take it you heard about the prison break."

I nodded once, firmly, forgetting (or ignoring) that he wouldn't know I had. "Did you orchestrate it?"

"Isn't that your job to figure out?" There was something in his tone that made me pause, something icy cold that ordered me to back off or risk the consequences. He continued, "Besides, it wasn't like it was my plan, anyway. Mom, Dad, and Bruce came up with the whole thing together."

I couldn't stifle a frustrated sigh. "Tim, how many times do I have to tell you? Your parents are _dead_. Bruce is _dead_. _Accept it and move on._"

Tim rattled the paper, staying silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke up again. "Just out of curiosity, are all the inmates accounted for?"

The question took me aback. "No," I replied carefully. "All we're missing from sightings are you and the Joker."

"Ooh, that's a bad sign. I can already tell you that Joker's…not in the vicinity at the moment."

"He isn't?"

Tim shook his head.

"Okay, then. Do _you _know where he is?"

Tim rattled the paper again, turning the page. "Well, that all depends on your interpretation of the Joker. If he was just some poor, lost soul in need of redemption, he's probably in Purgatory or limbo or wherever. Me, personally, I like to think he's where he belongs: in hell, with the rest of the demons."

An immediate sense of dread enveloped my heart, and I understood what he meant. _No, _I thought. _This can't be happening. This is _not _happening. _"Tim…what did you do?"

He folded up the paper and tossed it on the floor at my feet. His legs uncrossed, he put them back under the table, and he leaned forward in his chair. The scanty light in the room illuminated the black-and-purple leather of his jacket, the bright green streak crudely dyed into his hair, and the stark white face paint with its blackened eyes and blood-red smile stretching up his face. "Everything that needed to be done," he said, and then he laughed the most horrible, sickeningly insane laugh I'd ever heard.


	8. Getting Attention

When I woke up, the first thing I did was push the heavy weight of the overturned table off my chest. I sat up and shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose, but I couldn't shake away that terrifying last image of Tim, the person he'd become. It was burned into my mind, my memory, the picture of him with the green in his hair and the outfit and the face paint. I remembered the last words he said to me, too, before everything went black.

"_I've decided I want to do something for this city. And guess what? You're going to help me."_

I swallowed hard. How long had he been planning all of that before tonight: days, weeks, months, even? One thing was for certain, and that was that, however insane he was, Tim was still smart as ever. He'd seemed to know how I'd react, seemed to be playing the whole situation like a puppeteer plays his marionettes. He hadn't lost anything of his controlling tendencies, his Machiavellian attributes, but now he had no qualms. He'd always been a stricter governor of himself than anybody else could've ever been, even Bruce. Now, he'd cut those self-imposed restraints and decided to let it all run wild.

I remembered a conversation I had once with Bruce. I'd said: _"Are you totally sure about Tim?"_

He'd looked at me like I was insane. _"What do you mean?"_

"_Are you sure you can keep him reined in forever? I mean, give him a good reason to let go, and he could be dangerous."_

Bruce had shaken his head at me, almost disappointedly. _"Nightwing, I don't think Robin is as vicious as what you're making him out to be. He'll be okay. You'll see."_

But that was before all of this.

I couldn't help but check my suit, making sure everything was in place as it should've been. Nothing was missing, nothing was moved. That just worried me more. I would've expected him to take my tools, hell, even my whole belt. But, no, he left me with it. Why would he do that?

Unless…

The Batman in me worked furiously to provide the only sensible solution possible.

_He wants me to chase him,_ I realized. _He's still toying with me._

I quickly loaded back up in the Batmobile and contacted Oracle as I drove. I wasn't even watching where I was going. I was just driving anywhere I could think of, buying time for myself. "Oracle," I practically barked into the communicator.

"_What is it?" _she demanded, sounding rattled. _"Is something wrong?"_

"I found Tim."

"_That's great!"_

"He killed Joker."

Utter silence. _"That's…bad."_

"Now you know what he's doing? He's painted on a clown's face—_that_ clown's face—and he's roaming the streets dressed in black and purple, most likely causing all sorts of mayhem. And it's my fault!"

"_Dick, you know that's not true."_

"It is, Babs, it is! If I'd gotten him into Arkham sooner, if I'd gotten him some real help before this got bad, I could've spared us all this mess. But now, the Joker's dead, and as much of a devil as that man was, I don't like that his blood is on my little brother's hands. I'm not even Batman for a year, and I've already lost two people I could've saved. This is unbelievable! I can't _fix_ this, Babs! There's just…there's no way to fix this."

She was quiet for a long time. Then, she spoke up and said, _"Look, Dick, I know this is kind of useless advice, but just hang in there, okay? You'll get him back. Maybe it's not too late, after all."_

"Always the optimist, aren't you?"

"_Somebody's gotta be."_

"Keep me posted. If you find him, let me know."

Somehow, I knew she wouldn't. But I had to at least try to fool someone, if not myself, into thinking I still held onto that hope that Tim wasn't too far gone. Even though I already knew he was.

**~J~**

The Joker's henchmen watched on in awe—and a degree of fear—as the woman formerly known as Harley Quinn was dosed, yet again, with heroin. Their self-proclaimed new "leader" jerked her head back by her blonde ponytail and jabbed the needle into her neck, slowly forcing the drug into her system. "No…" she mumbled. "Please…d-don't..."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Tim said, the only sympathy in his voice cleverly manufactured. "I have to. You're just too good at being an example."

He turned to the thugs behind him with a triumphant grin on his face. He could see it on all of them, the acutest look of well-hidden terror that would be his key to taking over here. Leaning against the chair he'd long since tied Harley down to, he called out, "So, gentlemen…any questions?"

They were silent. The only sounds in the rundown old apartment building were the growls of the dogs and the whimpers of a woman who was slowly dying.

Finally, somebody got brave and shouted up from the back, "Just one—why the hell should we listen to you?"

Tim cocked his head. Dana laughed at his side. "Did he not see that?" she wondered aloud, her voice permeated with her giggles.

Tim beckoned the man forward. "Ooh, we have an inquirer among us! Come on, don't be shy, get on up here and allow me to address your concerns."

The man in question pushed his way through the crowd of henchmen. He was seedy-looking, pale and marked with the scars of a past addiction, but he'd apparently gotten over it, as he was a full head taller than Tim and a good hundred pounds heavier. His biceps bulged from his muscle shirt, and every step he took towards the sickening exhibition up front seemed to shake the ground like an earthquake. His laughter boomed in the quiet around them. "You're supposed to be in charge of us now?" he demanded incredulously. "You're just a scrawny kid!"

"Show him who's boss," Darla encouraged him.

The gathering of thugs, dealers, pimps, and all-out despicable people actually began to collectively brace themselves and murmur in concern for their peer. Anybody tough enough to take out the Joker wasn't to be messed with, and yet, here was this man, standing up to him as though he were the devil himself! They were all certain Tim was going to kill him, and they were gearing up to watch. It wouldn't be the first time they'd seen it, but it was something you never got used to, not even in Gotham City. The look of surprise that graced almost all of their faces when Tim laughed with his challenger was priceless, and their chortling was interspersed with the ever-quieting whines of Harley's final moments, soft noises that Tim paid no attention to. He reached up and clapped the other man on the back. "You've got a sense of humor," he observed lightly, his voice pitched up from laughing. "I like that. So, tell me: what's wrong with being under my leadership?"

The man was suddenly serious again. "You're just a kid," he reiterated. "If you've got some magical power that allows you to order me around, I'd like to see it."

Tim gestured for the man to step even closer. "Come here. Let me show you what my secret is."

From behind them, the others only saw Tim's hand clamp onto the man's shoulder, and then the man jerked and stiffened. There was no sound, but they could guess what happened. Tim stood almost on his tiptoes to whisper into his opponent's ear, "I call it _fear of death_."

He gave the man a hard shove, letting him topple backward onto the concrete floor. "I'm sure everyone here understands that." The thugs all shrank away, gasps tearing from the lips of some and horrified disgust permeating the air. Even as many as six months afterward, most of them would testify that it was difficult to believe what he'd done, despite having seen it with their own eyes.

Harley Quinn had stopped making any sort of noise at all and sat motionless in the chair she was tied to, her glassy-eyed stare locked onto some point in the distance.

The man lay on his back on the ground, equally still, the polished hilt of a Bowie knife jutting from his abdomen with the blade shoved all the way in.

Tim nudged the dead man with his foot, generating no response. He snorted a little in what sounded like pleasure. Conner said, "We knew you could do it," and placed an approving hand on his best friend's shoulder. Tim looked back up at the henchmen, who all instinctively flinched when his attention was turned onto them.

"Anybody else got something wise to say?" he demanded, and the only answer he was met with was the resounding silence in the room. "I didn't think so." He stepped up onto the crate he'd run Harley's chair up against, elevating himself above his newest kills, forming a twisted, macabre display of power. "Gentlemen," he addressed his newly-acquired gang, "first order of business: get the Bat's attention. And I know just the young lady who's going to help us do that."


	9. Only One Girl

Christina Salvatori had been spooked, the night that Batman took her to see the previous Robin. She was woman enough to admit to herself, if not anyone else, that the prospect of seeing things so terrible they would drive her insane, insane enough to be put into a place like Arkham Asylum, had almost scared her out of pursuing the life of a vigilante—_almost_. That might've been true, but Christina was tough. She knew she could handle the stuff Gotham would undoubtedly throw at her. After all, she'd been seeing it outside her bedroom window for all sixteen years of her life, and it hadn't really done much to her psyche then.

_Of course, _she mused, swinging through the city on her new lines, _I'm saying that dressed in a skin-tight costume while I'm wearing a mask and patrolling the streets for criminals. Yeah, I'm totally sane._

She'd expected that Batman would notice that he hadn't gotten his extra grapnel gun back from her. Some part of her was secretly grateful to the Powers-That-Be when he didn't appear to. She'd wanted to keep it, needed one for her own sake, and it was just a lucky stroke of fate that Batman didn't ask for it back. After all, he knew where she lived now, obviously knew her name and identity, and it wouldn't be too hard for him to grab it away. He hadn't yet, so she took that as a free pass to use it to her advantage until he did. And if he didn't, well…she'd take that as permission to patrol.

Most of this was just practice, anyway. She knew that, to work with Batman or any of his associates, she'd need to be well-trained and well-traversed in the areas they were experts in. Combat was an issue, but acrobatics? She could handle that herself. Acrobatics were practically the DIY of being a superhero, and Christina loved DIY projects.

As she flew through the streets, she passed a familiar apartment in a high-rise, one of the nicer buildings in East Gotham. She had to suppress the tears that threatened to blur her eyes. She'd grown up in that apartment, that one on the fifth-highest floor, but she'd had some hard times there, too. She remembered how empty it all seemed without her mom there, how young she'd been when the woman had walked out on them both. She remembered always coming home, no matter where she'd been, to the thick stench of sweat, smoke, and burnt food. Those horrible afternoons made their way to the front of her memory, the days when her dad would scream at her all the time and would hurt her just because it made him feel good. She could recall when she would spend her nights at the window, watching the crime in the streets below and occasionally catching a glimpse of Batman or Robin flying by, and wondering why they couldn't come save her like they saved other people. Most vividly of all, she remembered that terrifying week two and a half years before, when the beatings picked up and nice Mr. Drake, the neighbor she looked to as a surrogate dad, was killed right in his own apartment. She could hear his son's tears and screams, could hear the heartbreak underneath her bedroom floor. Child Services came for her the next day. Mr. Drake had called them four hours before his death.

Batman probably didn't know why she'd been so surprised to hear that the ex-Robin huddled on the bed in Arkham Asylum, drowning in his own madness, was Tim Drake. She'd always remember the name of the nice neighbor boy who saw her like a little sister, the neighbor boy who'd lost his family and then gone crazy.

Christina couldn't help but wonder if the trigger for psychosis was losing a parent or two. Tim had lost his parents, and now he was in the loony bin. She'd lost both of hers, and now she was out dressed like Spoiler. So, she had to wonder if she had some sort of screw loose, or if it was just what her dad had done to her. After all, she couldn't pretend that she'd really been surprised or even a little upset when she'd first heard that he'd been killed. Come to think of it, she couldn't even fully remember how they said he died. The police, they'd told her it had something to do with drugs or gangs or something equally shady. She didn't want to know, though, and she didn't really care. She just knew he was dead and he wouldn't be able to hurt her anymore.

Nobody blamed her when she said she didn't want to go to his funeral.

**~B~**

I sat at the computer terminal in the bunker the night that things got even worse than ever, trying to figure up how to keep my mind off of Tim's current condition. I won't lie to you. The only reason I was there and not actually out doing anything was because I was too anxious to hear news, any news, from Babs. But she hadn't called in yet with something pertaining to Tim. She still couldn't find him.

Suddenly, a wave of dread washed over me, and I leaned forward in my chair, staring at the keyboard intently. My thoughts began to race frantically in my head. Alfred approached me, calling, "Master Richard? Is there a problem, sir?"

The answer came almost instinctually. "Something's not right, Alfred."

**~J~**

Christina was starting to think it was a quiet night, quiet except for the rather loud conversation going on between her thoughts, when she heard a scream. She jerked her line, making a hard left into the alley it originated from, and stood, surveying the situation from the shadows and silently applauding herself for taking a very Batty approach.

It looked like your typical mugging. A pretty African-American girl, obviously higher-middle- or upper-class from the way she was dressed, clung to the arm of a youth who looked too afraid to defend her from the three thugs closing in on them. One pulled a gun on the couple, saying, "Don't draw attention and you won't get hurt, lady." He reached out and grabbed her roughly by the arm, pulling her away from the other man and into his own chest. He took a dramatic sniff of her hair. "You smell rich. What do you got on you?"

Christina acted before she could think, slinging a trash can lid at the thug and hitting him in the back of the head. The other two noticed her presence and converged on her, the young man who'd been with the girl—and was apparently also in on this—drew a switchblade, and Christina stood at a ready position, thinking, _I guess I'll find out if I'm good in a fight…_

Before she could act, though, she felt the sharp crack of a bony elbow between her shoulder blades. The blow struck a pressure point, and she crumpled to the ground, weak and losing consciousness fast. There was the sensation of someone tugging her hands behind her back and cuffs snapping down on her wrists before she was completely out.

The thugs worked fast. They had both girls bound quickly and piled into the back of their vehicle before driving away to the designated point. When they arrived, there was already a car out front, and they knew the boss was waiting for them inside. One of them dragged Christina behind him by her tied ankles, while two of the others picked up the girl from the alley and carried her, kicking and screaming and struggling, inside the apartment building.

They managed to get both girls into the basement with little trouble. Tim was indeed inside, sitting on the floor with his back leaning against Harley's crate and absentmindedly petting one of the snarling dogs. The thugs could tell this meant trouble. The crate had already become something of a symbol of foreboding to them. You didn't touch Harley's crate, and if you did, you didn't live much longer.

Tim had chained the dog, a pit-bull, he was pretty sure, and was trying to get the vicious animal used to his scent. He stroked the soft fur on the canine's neck and scratched it behind its ears as he listened to Bart, Steph, and Conner reminisce about their first days in the life. A beat-up little stereo was wired into the wall, projecting the strains of classical music throughout the basement. The thugs entered the room, hauling their precious burdens, and the single still-conscious girl began to scream even louder behind her gag at the sight of the pit-bull, fear stirred up in her by the foam spraying from its lips as it growled and occasionally lunged at thin air, and the reaction earned her a hard slap from the henchman she'd been forced to cling to in order to lure in Christina. The corner of Tim's mouth turned up in a smirk. It seemed the dog was just as crazy as the rest of them.

The girl was placed on a mattress in the corner, about two or three yards from Harley's crate. Tim stood and took the dog's chain in his hand as the thug carrying Christina dumped his load at the foot of Harley's crate. Bart, Conner, and Steph fell silent, watching the show from atop the crate.

Tim surveyed the unconscious Christina with a smile pulling at his lips. "Looky, boys," he said playfully. "The baby girl's sleeping." He nudged her prone form none-too-gently with a heavy black boot. "Wake up." He did it again, harder, and Christina moaned, stirring. "Oh, good, you're awake now." He pulled back his foot and sent a forceful kick directly into her gut. If she could've doubled over, she would've, but she settled for curling into the fetal position and grunting in pain.

Her eyes were wide open behind her mask, and although he couldn't see her face, she could see his. She held back the scream of terror. She knew it was just face paint, but it was ghastly. And that smile, that horrible smile…he was _enjoying_ this. He was going to take actual, genuine _satisfaction_ in whatever he was about to do to her.

"You know, when I first saw you outside my window at Arkham, I would've thought you just another nightmare."

His words hit her almost as hard as the next kick, and the next one after that. _That's Tim? _Her thoughts raced with her heartbeat. How far over the edge had he really gone?

"But then, I saw Batman, and I was all like, 'She's sanctioned!'"

Three more kicks, all of them powerful, and she was starting to cry.

"So, how in the hell did you get his permission? Hasn't he _learned _his _lesson_?"

"Learned" and "lesson" were accented by his next blows to the already bruised torso, and Christina felt a few of her ribs snap beneath the pressure. The tears were pouring down her face now, sticking the cloth of her mask to her skin and bringing out the smell of days' worth of sweat.

"You just can't get _anywhere_ with sidekicks! You can't throw somebody into it _young_! Look what already happened to all of _my_ friends! And me, well, I'm not so good, either, am I?"

The beating was worsening with the resentment and bitterness that showed through in his tone of voice. Christina was whimpering, and Tim heard it through her mask. He didn't have her gagged because he wanted to hear it. He _needed_ to hear it. Nobody deserved that role, nobody but Steph. This pretender had no right to call herself Spoiler. He'd show her. He let go of the pit-bull's chain, and it surged forward with a bark and a growl. Christina's cries of pain echoed in the basement room, drowning out the stereo's blasting Mozart. The ferocious dog bit and clawed at the defenseless teenager, ripping cloth from her costume and slicing through her skin. She felt the terrible stinging and burning, the agony of being mauled, and wrenched her eyes shut, hoping that it wouldn't be as bad if she couldn't see it coming. As suddenly as the torture began, the dog was wrestled back by two of the thugs, who reconnected its chain to the wall. Tim's voice sounded again, over the music and his victim's terrified sobs.

"But that's not the worst of what you've done."

Bloody and broken, Christina felt his weight settle on top of her, pinning her down so she couldn't struggle against him. The purple hood was pulled back, and the mask was torn away from her face, and she couldn't help but open her eyes to see what was going on. Tim straddled her, still grinning madly. The stereo was now playing Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_, but the piece sounded like an omen to the beaten girl. Tim dug in his pocket and pulled out a knife, flicking it open before Christina's wide eyes and sliding the blade between her lips. The cool metal rested in the left-hand corner of her mouth, and panic gripped her tightly. "Only one girl is worthy to be called Spoiler," Tim hissed gleefully. "And you're not her."

Screams rang in the night air.

**~B~**

After a few minutes of thinking, it finally hit me.

I'd never gotten that grapnel gun back from Christina. I'd let her keep it, and so she was probably out on the streets right then, causing trouble or getting into it, one of the two. And with Tim running around like he was, she was putting herself into too much danger.

I was about to call out to Alfred when my cell phone vibrated on the terminal. I scrambled to pick it up and answered, "Hello?"

Tim's voice replied, _"Did Spoiler ever tell you how much she loves nightclubs?" _He broke out into maniacal laughter without warning, and it was so loud it made my ear ring.

I hung up abruptly and threw the phone down on the floor. I was on my way to the Batmobile within seconds, pulling my cowl on as I went, and then I was speeding down the streets of Gotham, headed for the closest nightclub.

I searched the city, going around to every club I knew. At last, when I reached the Blue Blood Club, I drove around the back and spotted a limp figure lying in the alleyway, dressed in purple and black. I slammed on the brakes and leapt from the car, shouting, "Spoiler! Christina!" I dashed over to her, was about to lean down and ask if she was okay, but then I stopped.

My training was the only thing holding down my gag reflex.

Her mask and hood had been pulled away, revealing her pale, dead face. She'd been shot in the forehead twice, once over each eyebrow, and her eyes were rolled up in her head as if staring at the ugly wounds. A Glasgow grin had been carved into her cheeks, lopsidedly, and her white skin was stained red with her blood. There was a playing card stuck in the strap that ran diagonally across her front, and scrawled on it in Tim's handwriting was the message, "Better luck with the next one, Bats!"

I whirled and threw my fist into the wall next to me, ignoring the pain and the sound of my knuckles cracking against the bricks. I'd taken her to see Tim that night to protect her, but instead, I'd gotten her killed. This was my fault, no doubt about it. I had killed Christina Salvatori.

Contacting Gordon didn't take long, and I left just after I made the call and gave them the location of the body. I didn't want to stay and watch them clean up. As I drove away, I muttered, "Where are you hiding, Tim? It's war now."

**~J~**

Tam Fox had not had a good night. First, she was kidnapped by thugs on her way home from work at Wayne Enterprises. Next, she found out said thugs worked for the Joker. Then, she had to participate in capturing Spoiler and then had to watch the Joker kill the girl. Now, she was lying on her side on the mattress in the basement of the old apartment building, crying her eyes out and trying hard to keep herself together.

Footsteps approached, and someone knelt down next to her. She opened her eyes and saw a ghostly white face with black eyes and a red smile, with a streak of green in the mop of jet-black hair on top of it. She screamed as best she could and shrank back away from the new Joker. She knew what came next. Now, he'd kill her like he killed Spoiler.

Tim shook his head, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "Oh, Tam, honey," he sighed. "You've got to learn some self-control. I'm not going to hurt you."

Tam stared at him like he was out of his mind—which he was. He ripped the gag away so she could speak. "Y-you-you're not?" she repeated in disbelief.

"No, of course I'm not going to hurt you." He smiled sweetly down at her. "I'm going to promote you. After all…every Joker needs a Harley Quinn."


	10. Dollar For Your Thoughts

I stormed into the bunker early the next morning, after patrol was over, still fuming over what had happened. I should've been there to protect her. No, I should've been there to protect _Tim_, to make sure he had some way to keep the pressure from getting to him. Then, maybe Christina wouldn't be dead and he wouldn't be a murderer.

I clenched my fists to keep from clawing at my own throat. I'd be damned if I let him turn into a monster.

Alfred, of course, noticed my distress almost immediately after I entered the room and asked, "Master Richard, if I may, what seems to be the trouble?"

"He killed her," I seethed. "Tim killed Christina Salvatori, and if I'd been there, watching over her like I should've been, she would still be alive!" I felt drained all of a sudden, unable to hold my own weight on my feet, and I sank into the nearest chair without bothering to get out of costume first, resting my forehead on the heels of my hands. "She was sixteen, Alfred, barely older than Tim when he started out. She was never trained; I could tell just by watching her try to fight. She never stood a chance, but I let her run wild. And now look. She's dead, killed by my little brother, of all people."

Alfred cleared his throat, giving me a look that was a combination of disappointment and sympathy. "Master Richard," he addressed me softly, reaching around to unclasp my cape as he spoke, "in my years of service to the Wayne family, I had heard Master Bruce say the same many a time. He would always blame himself for the deaths of those he had been unable to save, and I don't believe he ever stopped blaming himself for the death of young Master Jason. However, sir, I will tell you the same thing I told him. Batman is a crime-fighter, not a glorified babysitter. You had many more things to be concerned with. You trusted that Miss Salvatori could handle herself, but she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not your doing, and you have no reason to blame yourself." He knelt down so that he was eye-level with me and lowered his tone even more. "The hardest lesson for a person in your position to learn, Master Richard, is that…there are times when you cannot save everyone."

"But I could've saved her!" My voice had risen to a shout. "I could've saved them _all_, even Tim! If I'd _been_ there for him, if I'd forced him to talk about what was bothering him instead of letting him bottle it all up inside, we wouldn't be _in_ this mess! Tim would still be a hero, he would still be our ally, Christina and the Joker would still be alive, and everything would still be normal!" I slumped even lower in my seat, shaking my head over and over. "This _is_ my doing, Alfred," I nearly whispered. "It's my fault. I could've stopped it, but I didn't. I failed."

Alfred didn't say anything for the longest time, and I prayed that, for once, he would agree that I'd screwed up instead of condoning me. Instead, infuriatingly, he just patted my shoulder comfortingly and murmured, "Master Richard, please try to remember that sometimes, in order to grow, we must first suffer." And with that, he walked away, letting me battle it out for myself in my own mind.

Damian came in sometime later, when I'd been sitting there, motionless, for about an hour. He plopped down into a chair next to me and asked, nonchalantly, as if nothing in the world were wrong, "What're we doing tonight?"

For the first time in an hour, I snapped out of my trance and gazed at him with bleary eyes. "We're gonna track down Tim," I told him. "Then I'm gonna go after him, and you're gonna stay here with Alfred and Barbara and help me out behind the scenes."

He scoffed. "Please, Grayson. I'm more than capable of holding my own against Drake. I've beaten him in physical combat twice—"

"Yeah, back before he went insane. Look, Damian, I know that you're a good fighter, and you're gonna be a good Robin, if you wanna be. And I'm sorry, but…I can't let you go out there to face Tim now, not when he has zero restrictions and zero reservations. In his mind, you're responsible for this, because your arrival meant that he'd ultimately have to stop being Robin. That kind of thought running through his head, you think he'll have any problem at all with killing you right on the spot?"

"I've dealt with _assassins_ before, Grayson. I'm sure Drake would be a walk in the park compared to that."

I swiveled my chair around to face the computer, pointedly avoiding Damian's eyes. "Maybe so, but I'm not risking your life on a theory. You're staying here until I deem you ready to deal with him, is that clear?"

Damian snorted, but he said, "Fine. What do you need me to do first?"

"Look through the contacts," I ordered. "Find me the names of every psychologist we have listed who's got more than five years' experience in the field, preferably somebody who's dealt with insanity before. If we're going to do anything to help Tim, first we have to understand his condition."

"What condition? He's insane."

I prayed that wasn't all there was to it.

**~J~**

Two-Face supposed he'd have to thank the kid for getting them all out of Arkham. It was quite the stunt he pulled, going it solo for a gig like that. Hanging around him in the asylum, listening to him when he'd talk to Crane and Nigma, he could tell that—what was his name again?—Drake had once been somebody very intelligent. And that, to Harvey, was pretty cool, considering the kid couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. It was always interesting to watch the "smart ones" who'd get dumped into Arkham with the rest of the crazies.

Harvey, he wasn't crazy. Joker and Harley and Drake were the genuine ones, the ones whose minds really _had_ snapped. The rest of the inmates were really just crooks they didn't have a place in prison for, so they shipped them off to Hell's waiting room. That was what they used to call Arkham...Hell's waiting room. It was the place for the damned to sit and waste time until the devil came and called them down to the eternal barbecue pit. It really wasn't fair that they _all_ had to be dumped in there. The crazies didn't deserve it, and maybe that was why Joker and Harley and Drake turned out how they had. But Harvey, he wasn't unhinged in the least, so that place couldn't hurt him.

Now, if he could just get that other side of him to agree…

He'd heard somebody had offed the Joker, which was good—Harvey had never liked that clown, anyway—but that they'd also taken over his gang, which was bad. He'd heard rumors, crazy rumors, that it had been the kid, that it had been Drake. Nobody could prove it, but the idea stuck in his brain. What if it was true? What if he'd worked up some nerve none of the rest of them had and killed the guy? That was a bad sign. If it was true, it meant he was getting ambitious, and ambitious people were very dangerous to hard-working guys like Harvey.

Fortunately, he had his insurance policies.

He fingered his lucky coin, his favorite coin, as he returned to his little office at the docks. The scarred side caught the light as he turned it in his hand, flashing its ugly face at him. A chill tingled up and down his spine, and he gave a little shudder. Something didn't feel quite right. Something was off.

Impossible, he told himself. This was the same thing he did every night that he wasn't in Arkham.

He opened the door of his office to see a figure sitting on top of the desk, clad in black and purple leather and combat boots. Dark, shaggy hair with a single, thick green streak through it flopped into a face painted white with the lopsided, blood-red smile of a lunatic. _Oh, shit,_ Harvey thought, reaching into his coat for his gun. "Penny for your thoughts…?" Tim called, grinning.

Harvey tossed his coin into the air.

Tim drew his arm back and flung his knife.

The blade sunk deep into Two-Face's chest, knocking him to the floor. He had maybe five, ten seconds after that before his heart stopped beating. Tim pushed off the desk and stepped over, surveying his handiwork with a degree of pride. He bent down and picked up the silvery coin off the floor, the unmarred side gazing coolly up at him. "I'll take a dollar, thanks."

He left biting down on Harvey's coin to keep the laughter from spilling out too loudly.


	11. Sounds Exciting

Tamara Fox, the driver's license said.

When they caught her, she'd been an upright citizen. Well-to-do. A student. An intern. A businesswoman. And beautiful, so very beautiful. That had been his instruction, to find somebody beautiful.

So they picked her up on her way home. She'd been so very frightened, especially when she was brought back to headquarters and watched "Spoiler" die. She'd thought—stupid girl—she'd thought they'd kill her, too. They'd already taken everything she had on her that was of some sort of value: her jewelry, her wallet, her purse. She knew how those stories always went. Pretty girl gets robbed, maybe something unspeakable happens to her, and then she winds up dead. No witnesses, no perpetrators. Just a dead girl in a ditch.

But Tim, he had a different plan for her.

Tam was more than just leverage. He was the Joker now, right? All he needed to seal the deal was his Harley Quinn. But she couldn't be two people, couldn't be Tam Fox and Harley Quinn. She had to be _just_ Harley, _night and day, 24/7_. He couldn't have it any other way.

That was what he'd been hard at work on for a month now.

He wasn't surprised that he'd hidden away from Batman for that long. If he knew Dick—and he did, fortunately for them all—he knew that his older brother's first concern would be to understand his "condition". Condition was a strong word, the label they gave to people who knew things they weren't supposed to know. For whatever reason, and this was what kept him up at night nowadays more than his Bat-tendencies…for whatever reason, Dick wanted him to be lonely. He wanted him to be that broken little boy cowering in the corner, waiting for someone, anyone, to come and save him.

He always _did_ used to say that Dick had a hero complex.

Well, Tim didn't need saving. He never had; he never would. And, besides, right now, he was doing much more than Dick ever did to save Gotham City from itself, even if it did mean he had to get a little nasty. But he'd be lying if he told himself he didn't enjoy it, getting to cut loose for once and not worry about what anybody else would think because everybody else agreed with him.

Except Dick, of course, but soon, none of that would really matter anymore.

Tam was a resilient one, he'd give her that. He hadn't expected her to last a full month. The first week, of course, had been the death of Spoiler. She screamed a lot after that happened, screamed until she couldn't, but she stayed strong. So, Tim eliminated the possibility of her sleeping by remaining with her all night long, making sure she stayed awake, forcing her to. The next week, he brought her Two-Face's ugly head, straight from the morgue, the expression of surprise still written on its face (faces?), and he set it right in front of her mattress. Its eyes were open and staring at her all the time and she couldn't _help_ but look back. Still, despite that, she didn't break.

So, after that, it was less food and water, less bathroom breaks. No sleep and no showers for her. The basement had begun to acquire a stench, a barely-perceptible smell that was something like a mixture of a few days' worth of human filth and slightly spoiled meat. Whatever Tam did eat didn't stay down too long because of it. Tim would be sure to apologize after she could see things how he saw them.

Next, he brought Tam more presents—a Tupperware bowl full of bloodstained red hair and green leaves from Poison Ivy, and the Penguin, alive, so that she could watch his last moments. It was traumatizing; Tim made sure of that. He wrote Tam a little message on the wall, their initials inside a heart pierced with an arrow, and then he smeared a bit of the blood on her dirty face and in her greasy hair. That was Friday of the third week.

It was probably Wednesday of the fourth week that did it for her. The stereo was blasting "Waltzing Matilda" the whole time that Tim went to work on the boys. They were teenagers, wannabe gangbangers who thought it'd be cool to get in with a big-name person like the Joker for whatever reasons they had. Tim told them he needed them, gave them a winning smile, and welcomed them in. It wasn't too long afterward that they joined Harvey, Ivy, Cobblepot, and the others. Afterward, Tim sat on the beat-up old couch, channel-surfing on the dying old television and cable box he'd had brought in, as if it wasn't a hellhole in that place. The odor had become putrid, stifling, filling the room and permeating the atmosphere so much that semi-clean oxygen was like a bad joke. Tam was fouler than ever, the dead rogues weren't decomposing fast enough for the stench to die down, and Tim? Well, none of this seemed to bother him. He just sat on his couch, with his pit-bulls curled up at his feet, watching the TV. And the whole time, she kept hearing the same song playing over and over and over again.

"_Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me…"_

Tim held her driver's license in his lap, staring at the picture of the beautiful girl whose name was proudly displayed on the laminated little plastic card and thinking how much different she looked, now that her hair was matted and messy and her skin was covered in a month's collective grime. He paused in his channel-surfing when he came across a news report about a missing girl.

"_Sources say that there is still no sign of Tamara Fox, who has been missing for nearly a month now," _the reporter on the screen was saying in that annoying, official tone that always seemed to be soaked through with detachment. _"Fox, nineteen, is the daughter of Wayne Enterprises CEO, Lucius Fox, who has been with the company for more than twenty years. Fox was unavailable for comment, but Richard Grayson-Wayne, current controlling shareholder, had this to say."_

Tim quickly changed the channel to some stupid kids' cartoon, deciding that he didn't give a damn about what Dick had to say. Besides, they were all trapped in a fruitless search. If they were looking for Tam Fox, she was long gone.

"I'm an insomniac by nature," he called over the strains of the music. "I don't know what it is about the night that's so…_alluring_…to me, but I just don't wanna miss it for _anything_."

He stood, ambling his way over to Tam's mattress. As he walked, he took a sniff of the air and shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. "Smells like somebody still has some work to do on potty training." He knelt down so that he was at her eye level. "I hope you can forgive me for all of this someday, Tam. I just want you to know it's for your own good. I mean, I'm trying to get you into shape for helping me out. I've got _big plans_ for Gotham. You'll see." He turned to look over his shoulder. "No, Dana, I can handle this."

He faced Tam again, grinning like the lunatic that he was. "I bet you're wondering why I'm putting all this effort in. Why bother with all of these people? What good could you possibly do with all of this? Well, I'll tell you." He began talking with his hands then, gesturing as he spoke for emphasis. "Ever since I was little, I've had this dream. I've wanted to make Gotham City a better place. I used to do that with Batman, but you know what the problem was? He just wasn't getting anything done. He wasn't doing anything right. Every other month, it was the same old thing, always repeating itself, never a break. Now, I have this plan to fix that, and it's called, 'I'm going to get rid of all the people who're no good for this city.' You like it?

"The whole thing with that Spoiler wannabe, I mean, c'mon. Ask yourself this: could she have done _anything_ for Gotham? She had no skill, not like what I have, and she always just getting in the way. She was just a naïve little girl playing at the hero, and she failed.

"All of those guys over there, the ones I killed, they only ever wanted their money, and they didn't care who or what they hurt in the process. People like that are destructive to the system, so I took care of the problem.

"Now, of course, you can't operate anything without having…an underbelly of sorts, a bunch of people who're willing to do the dirty work. That's where you and I come in, sweetheart. We'll run that underbelly, to balance the system out. All that's left is to get rid of the Batman, because nobody needs a Batman in a city that can clean up its own streets much more effectively." He spread his hands in a questioning gesture, still smiling. "What do you think?"

Tam cocked her head to the side a little, mulling it over for a minute, before allowing a sultry grin to pull at her own lips. She gave a little laugh before saying, "Sounds…exciting."


	12. Propositions

I met with a specialist that Tuesday, at Wayne Tower in the penthouse. His name was Michael Sellers, and we'd chosen him over the literal one hundred fifty-seven psychologists we had on our contacts list because he'd been working with the mentally ill for fifteen years at that point. I met him in the lobby of Wayne Tower and shook his hand.

"Dr. Sellers," I greeted him, smiling. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Wayne," he replied, returning the smile. "I heard you needed to speak with me about something."

"Of course; right this way, please."

I led him up to the penthouse, where Alfred had already put my demonic protégé in his room and had set out refreshments for us. We sat across from each other, him in the armchair and me on the couch, and got down to the business at hand. "It's about my little brother," I began. "His name is Tim, and he's…well, he hasn't been well lately."

Sellers nodded. "What condition does he seem to be in—symptom-wise and such?"

I swallowed hard. "You see, Tim's had a bit of a hard life. Both of his biological parents were murdered, and then he lost three friends, his girlfriend, and his stepmother. And then, of course, Bruce died, and he just…I don't know. He snapped. He claims that he sees them all, that they talk to him, and he refuses to believe me when I tell him that they're all dead. He's been behaving in some rather…self-destructive ways, doing things he wouldn't normally do. He's not suicidal as far as I can tell, but he's damn close. Oh—pardon me."

Sellers waved it off dismissively. "Is Tim a very social person by nature?"

I shook my head. "No, Tim has never been very social. He's always very anxious and tense, and he doesn't like to be around people very much. We're lucky to get him to spend a little time with the family every once in a while."

"Does he ever appear emotionless or flat at all?"

"It's not uncommon."

"Does he ever have delusions of grandeur or participate in violent or criminal acts?"

I wanted to get defensive, to tell him that Tim was a good kid, but he'd never get the help he needed if I didn't tell Sellers what was really going on with him. "Delusions of grandeur I'm not so sure of. Violent or criminal acts, however…well, that's another story."

"I see." Sellers took a sip of his coffee. "Is your brother—Tim, is that right?" I nodded. "Is Tim on hand where I can speak with him for a while?"

I felt myself squirming in my seat a bit, and my eyes wandered to the windows before returning to Sellers' face. "He would be," I told him, "but…before I could get in contact with you and have him properly diagnosed, he was shunted off to Arkham Asylum for treatment. About a month and a half ago, there was a massive breakout. They're still rounding up the patients, but they haven't found Tim yet."

"Ah," Sellers said. "Well, the way you've described it to me so far, it sounds very much like a case of schizophrenia. Symptoms can include hearing or seeing things that don't exist, or hallucinating, self-destructive behavior, as you've told me, participating in or perpetrating violent criminal acts, delusions, suicidal thoughts or behavior, and, of course, paranoia and restlessness. Environmental settings are recognized as triggers for schizophrenia, but it's not known yet whether or not they specifically cause it.

"Now, these types of symptoms don't develop overnight. Your brother didn't wake up the morning after your father died and was suddenly schizophrenic. It's safe enough, right now, to assume that symptoms were gradually building over an extended period of time, and he just never said anything for fear of being sent to a specialist or to a mental hospital such as Arkham Asylum. Some people do deny themselves treatment. Do you happen to know if there was any history of schizophrenia in Tim's biological family?"

I racked my brain for a moment or two before shaking my head. "As far as I know, the only schizophrenic member of Tim's family was a paternal grandmother who passed away in 2006. Of course, Tim was never very close to his parents, so it's possible that one or both of them might've had it and just never told him."

Sellers nodded. "It's believed that a main _cause _of schizophrenia is a hereditary history of the disease in parents, grandparents, and such, but there are usually also triggers. The stress Tim experienced as a result of the losses in his life was probably the biggest _trigger_ for the disease, though there were probably other, smaller things that contributed to it, as well." He paused and adjusted his tie, but I could tell it was just to buy a little time. It was the Batman in me hard at work, even then. "Now, Mr. Wayne, I'm going to tell you this, but I don't want you to panic and think it's too late for Tim. Schizophrenia can be life-threatening in some cases when one reaches the stages of hallucinations and dangerous behavior, as you tell me Tim has displayed. It's imperative that, as soon as Arkham officials locate your brother, you have him properly tested for schizophrenia and treated immediately after diagnosis. There is no cure for schizophrenia, but I'm sure that the doctors at the asylum can give your brother the treatment he'll need in order to improve and live a more normal life.

"I'm not saying that symptoms will completely disappear once treatment begins. There's always a risk that they could recur. And there is also the very high likelihood that he won't want to be treated."

I gulped my coffee down around the heart-sized lump that had risen up in my throat and tried to comprehend that little bit. "I-if that happens," I stammered, "if Tim doesn't want help…w-what do I do?"

Sellers shrugged. "I won't presume to tell you what's best for your family, Mr. Wayne," he responded, a note of genuine sympathy in his voice. "If Tim refuses treatment for his condition, you need to do whatever you feel you have to, whether that's making sure he follows through with it or not forcing the issue. Did any of this help in any way?"

I was stunned, but I nodded. Sellers stood and smoothed out his pants and jacket, and I followed suit. I stretched out a hand to him to shake. "Thanks again, Dr. Sellers," I told him. "You can't imagine how much this is going to help us."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Wayne. It was my pleasure."

**~J~**

The south side was a sleazy part of Gotham, the part best known for its drug deals and its pretty prostitutes. Its alleyways were so dirty that month's worth of the Bat-clan's cleaning the streets couldn't clear all the filth out. It was a slum full of garbage, crime, and despair, a place you hardly ever saw a cop who wasn't crooked or dead.

It was also Black Mask's most profitable territory.

He rode the streets in style that night, cruising in his favorite black Lexus. The fluorescent blue headlights illuminated a wide parabola of the asphalt of Gregory Street and the concrete of the sidewalk on both sides. Everyone caught in its glare couldn't help but turn to see who or what was passing by. They were winos, bums, hookers, pimps, thugs, and just poor people with no place else to go. But one in particular stuck out, a young woman walking in front of Black Mask's car. She wore a dress with a red-and-black plaid bodice, tightly fitted to her torso, but whose skirt flared out in red-and-black stripes. Polka-dotted leggings of the same color scheme were pulled up her slender legs, emerging from ankle-high, wedge-heeled black boots. Her dark hair was done up in pigtails that spouted from her scalp like twin waterfalls of brown, black, and red. Black Mask raised an eyebrow. "Stop the car," he commanded, and his driver did so, pulling up right alongside the woman.

He rolled the window down in the backseat and leaned across one of his security guards to call out of it. "Chilly night, isn't it, honey?"

She stopped and turned to look at him, her eyes caked with dark makeup and her lips red as rubies, somehow bright in the night. She folded leather-gloved arms over her chest and smiled. "Sure is," she replied.

"Why don't you come on in and I'll take you someplace to get you warmed up?"

Her smile grew seductive, and she approached the car.

The security guard on Black Mask's right opened the door for her, and she clambered in. She squeezed into the small space between the two men, but ended up mostly on Black Mask's lap. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and was about to tell the driver to continue on down the road, but he was stopped by a rapping on the window up front. He looked to see a man in a leather jacket, striped purple, with a purple hoodie on underneath, standing by the passenger's side. The hood had been pulled up and cast the man's face into shadow, but it was obvious by the way he was insistently knocking on the glass that he thought he needed to speak with somebody about something. Black Mask rolled his eyes. This would be the third one that night trying to peddle his cheap crap to them. "Roll down the window and see what this dumbass wants," he ordered.

The security guard up front did just that…but by the time the window came all the way down, the man on the other side had taken a step back and was leveling a Smith & Wesson M1911 at the guards. Two shots were fired off before anyone could react, the driver and the guard jerked, and then both were dead in their seats. The woman on Black Mask's lap drew two knives from seemingly nowhere and plunged them into the chests of the guards sitting next to him. He reached behind him for his own firearm, but she'd twisted around and was pressing a third blade against his throat, grinning wickedly.

"Holy shit!" he sputtered.

"Oh, there's shit here, alright, but it ain't holy," the woman quipped, reaching up into the front seat to unlock the car.

The man had come around the back, tucking his gun into a previously-unseen holster as he went, and yanked open the door, dragging the body of the driver out. He plopped down into the seat with a sigh, shut the door, pulled down his hood, and turned around to look at his captive and accomplice.

"Ooh, looky here," Tim said in mock excitement. "We've got ourselves a mob boss! Excellent catch, Harley."

The woman—Harley—giggled. "Thanks, J-Baby."

"J-Baby…?" Black Mask repeated, stunned. "What the hell…?" Then it dawned on him: the color schemes, the war paint, the crazy attitudes… "You're that guy…the one who killed the Joker!"

Tim smirked at him. "Actually, you've got that wrong. I'm not just 'that guy' anymore; I'm your new business partner."

Black Mask eyed him warily. "And what makes you think I'm willing to do anything for a freak like you?"

Tim turned back around and buckled in. "My proposition is impossible to refuse."

With Harley cackling madly in the backseat, the Lexus sped off down Gregory Street and to a familiar apartment complex.

**~B~**

"I hope you realize how much I'm risking just by being here," I said, wringing my hands. "I'm not playing around. I'm taking serious chances—putting a lot in jeopardy by giving you this opportunity."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, I get it. So, what exactly is it that you want me to do?"

I took a deep breath before I continued. "As you know, Tim is…unwell."

"And by unwell you mean bat-shit insane, but yeah, I know."

"And he…well, I have reason to believe he's behind a string of killings of Gotham's most-wanted. First was the Joker, and then was Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Penguin, Two-Face, and a few street thugs who got in his way."

"Oh, so somebody _finally_ offed that son of a bitch. I'm happy."

"Don't be. Tim's taken his place and is committing crimes in his name. He's turning himself into a monster, but…I can't stop him without help. Damian's too young, too inexperienced. He'll be endangering himself. I wouldn't think to ask Blackbat—too much emotion there. Huntress is with the Birds of Prey again. Bruce is gone, and the rest of the family's off doing their own thing, so there was nobody else to ask but you."

"You still consider me a part of the family, then?"

"I never _stopped_ considering you a part of the family. Bottom line: I can't do this without you."

"Well, I wanna know what's in it for me before I start making promises."

"I can guarantee you a clean slate. You help me with this, and you'll walk away a free man with a fresh start. No more jail time, no more Arkham or Blackgate. You get to go do whatever you will with your life—until you screw up again, that is."

"Huh. Even with that insult tacked on the end, it's still a sweet deal." Jason leaned forward in his seat, making his handcuffs rattle. "I'm in."


	13. So Disappointed

**WARNING: A particularly violent chapter follows this note. For the weak-stomached, there is a torture scene from the end of this bold print until the change in POV that you may find disturbing.**

"Are you familiar with the contents of the average toolbox, Mr. Elliot?"

Hush spat on the floor of the basement, watching the glob of thick liquid land among the coats of grit lining the concrete beneath his bare feet. If he wasn't tied down to the chair with goons on every side, he'd get up and kill that kid with his own bare hands. Choke him out, probably, or maybe just beat him. Hadn't that worked for the first Joker, anyway? "Can't say I build much," he snarled.

Tim's leather jacket was spread over the little table like a tablecloth, and the toolbox sat open in front of him. He pulled out the tools, one by one, placing them in perfect alignment next to one another on the jacket. Janet watched from the side, smiling a little at her son. "Just remember why we're here, Timmy," she said. "Don't let yourself have too much fun."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I know what I'm doing, Mom," he muttered, picking up the wrench to shine it on his shirt.

He turned back to Tommy with the barest hint of a wicked grin stretching at his lips. He smacked the wrench into the palm of his left hand, the crack of flesh meeting metal ringing out with each step he took. "We're gonna play a little game, Mr. Elliot. It's called 'The Question Game'. I ask, you answer. It's simple enough." He sauntered around to the back of the chair and slid Tommy's left thumb into the wrench, gripping the cool metal tightly in his bare hands. "First question: how much did Bruce Wayne used to mean to you?"

"Everything." And he most certainly was not about to choke on the word.

"No!" A sharp forward twist of the wrench brought the harsh sound of breaking bones to Tim's ears, and he moved the wrench to the next finger as he growled out his reply. "Bruce Wayne meant _nothing_ to you." Another finger gave under the effort of the metal and the young hands working the tool. "You tried to kill him." Then he broke another. "You tried to dishonor him." And then another. "You tried to steal his fortune from him." And then another. "And you had the gall to call yourself his _friend_, for God's sake!" Tommy bit back a scream, morphing the noise into something resembling a grunt as the right thumb went. "But me, I _cherished_ Bruce Wayne." He broke the next finger. "He meant everything to _me_." And the next. "They say he's dead, you know." And the next. "And that just _broke_"—the right pinky cracked under the pressure—"my heart."

Tears streaked Tommy's face, and he was biting his lip so hard that it drew blood. Tim placed the wrench back where it had been and picked up the hammer and nails. "Next question," he said. "How much pain do you think you can endure before you break?" He pulled a chair up next to Tommy's, sitting forward so that their faces were close, close enough that Tommy could smell the strange mixture of peppermints and alcohol on Tim's breath.

Tim twisted the first nail slowly, working the point under each layer of Tommy's skin until it hit muscle and vein in his shoulder. Tommy's groans grew louder with every turn of the half-rusted metal being driven into his body. The tips of Tim's fingers were sprinkled with crimson blood as he reached for the next nail.

"I used to ask myself that question. I used to think I was tough, too, but then I learned what heartbreak means."

The next nail found its way into the right side of Tommy's abdomen. That was when he decided it didn't matter anymore if the little bastard heard him scream.

"The pain you're going through right now, it's…sort of like heartbreak. Only, you know—ten times worse."

Nail after nail dug into flesh, and Tommy's throat hurt from screaming by the time it was over and Tim was reaching down with bloodstained hands to pick up the hammer from the floor. Tommy hung his head, breathing heavily, and when he raised it again, he was met with a hammerhead smashing into his jaw.

Bone cracked under the heavy metal as Tim swung and impacted. "Question number three: just how stupid do you think I am?"

The next blow sent blood spraying from Tommy's mouth. "You think I _don't know_ that Batman's gonna come for me?" Tim demanded, smashing Tommy's nose. "You think I don't _expect_ him to misunderstand? The hell I don't!" Tommy cringed, expecting another hit, but it never came. Tim flung the hammer away, into the shadows concealing the rest of the room. His voice took on a softer tone as he continued. "Nobody understands. That's why I have to get rid of him. He makes it so…damn…hard…for people to see."

He returned to the tools laid out on his jacket, choosing carefully. Sitting back down in front of the bloody, beaten rogue, he reached up to pry the man's mouth open roughly, forcing a pair of pliers inside to grip one of Tommy's teeth. "Next question: how do you beg for mercy when you don't have teeth to form the words?"

Ten teeth tumbled to the floor in fifteen agonizing minutes. Each time Tommy screamed, it seemed to make the pain worse. Tim's hands were now somehow thinly coated in the blood of his victim. He threw the pliers away to join the hammer and pulled a knife from his pocket, sliding it between Tommy's lips just as he'd done to the wannabe girl so many weeks ago. "Of course, having a mouth is kind of important, too."

He made it slow, dragging the blade with precision through the thick flesh. And then he went to work on the other side, carving a ghoulish, ghastly grin into the man's cheeks before getting up to go back to the table. He kept his back turned, listening to the soft sobs of agony emanating from the pitiful creature bound to the chair behind him. He felt the tiniest twinge of something like guilt—but he choked it out quickly and picked up the drill.

"So, Mr. Elliot, you've still got a chance to beg." Tim placed the drill against Tommy's left temple. "So go ahead. Give me a good reason to let you live."

"Please…" Tommy's voice was wet with the blood that dribbled down his chin, his chest, his arms, and his legs. "P-please…"

The whine of the drill drowned out his murmured entreaty.

Droplets of crimson blood stood out, bright and wet, against the stark white paint on Tim's face. "I'm sorry," he whispered with morbid joy. "I didn't quite hear you."

He stood, discarding the dead man and the drill, and turned to his men. "Contact Black Mask," he ordered. "Tell him…tell him that we're gonna need his guns for this one. Tonight, gentlemen, we watch the Bat fall."

**~B~**

I knew that, if I did anything really, truly out of line, Alfred would reel me back in with a prompt reprimand and a gentlemanly frown of disapproval. I got the frown when I brought Jason back to the bunker with me, but the reprimand didn't come, which made me think that I had it almost right. All I had to do was get a smile on his face, and the situation was golden.

But, it didn't come. All wise old Alfred did was walk over to us, stand before us with his hands clasped in front of him officially, and ask, "Will you be staying longer this time, Master Jason, or should I prepare a more temporary room?"

Jason guffawed as if the elderly butler had just told him the most hilarious joke he'd ever heard and clapped him on the back. "Good old Alfred," he crowed. "I didn't realize how much I missed you."

"And I you, Master Jason, though I must admit that my hopes of your remaining here are somewhat dashed."

Jason gave a dismissive wave. "I'll give it some thought. I can't make any promises, though." He jerked his head to indicate me. "Grayson over here gives me a headache."

"Jason," I snapped, heading over to the computer terminal. "Stop wasting time with chitchat and get over here to help."

I turned away so that I wouldn't have to see his flippant nonverbal response to that and waited for him to come over. By the time he got there, I was already opening windows, showing him pages of information I'd gathered. "This is what we know so far. Tim appears to be suffering from some sort of schizophrenia, or something very much like it. Delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, dangerous behavior…"

"Suffering, huh?" Jason sneered. "I think he's _enjoying_ it."

I glared at him, but kept on going so that I wouldn't have to find a new partner-in-not-technically-crime if I killed him for it. "He's been on and off the map for quite some time now, and every disappearance falls just after a rogue turns up dead someplace."

"You think it's him."

"Who else would it be, Jay? They were gone from their frequent haunts, dumped exactly twelve blocks from each."

"Okay…"

I hit a key on the terminal a little harder than I needed to. "Tim's lucky number is twelve."

"That's not psycho or anything."

"Stop acting so superior. You're not much better in the mental department."

If he wouldn't have gotten anything out of it, Jason probably would've just asked me to take him back to prison.

"So what's the plan, then?" he demanded.

"We take the city by storm," I told him. "Search every one of Tim's favorite places, all of Joker's old hideouts, and we don't stop until we find him. And then we bring him in." _Just like a good Batman is supposed to do, _I thought bitterly.

Jason opened his mouth to say something else, but the ring of my cell phone stopped us both. Without thinking, I lifted it to my ear and answered, "Hello?"

"_You know, Dick, I didn't want to have to make this difficult."_

"It's Tim," I hissed to Jason. Then, I turned my attention back to Tim. "What do you mean?"

"_If you'd just cooperated with me, you wouldn't have had to have been the enemy here. All it would've taken was a little sacrifice…your flying…your strength, maybe…but no. You just _had_ to get in my way, didn't you? You just couldn't accept what I was trying to do. And now, Dick…now you have to die. And I'm _so_ disappointed in you."_

"Tim. Listen to me. I know about your condition. I know that you think it's all real, but it isn't, and it's scaring you. And I feel your pain, Tim. I really do."

"_I don't want your sympathy. Would I do all this if I cared about sympathy?"_

I ignored the dig as best I could, trying to convince myself that it didn't hurt. "You're not well, you're not thinking right, and I need you to back down and just do what I'm asking for once. Just—just let me end this for you, Tim. Let me end it."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a while before Tim finally spoke up again, and this time his voice was thoughtful. _"You really want to make it all stop, Dick?"_

I swallowed and nodded. "Yes, Tim. Yes, I do."

Tim's laughter rang out, loud and clear and wild, making me flinch away from the phone. _"Then meet me at Park Row, the old theater, tonight at midnight. Let the best man live!"_

I could feel my face settling into a scowl as Tim hung up. I pulled the cell phone away and looked up at Jason. "Change of plans," I reported.


End file.
